


Friends in Quotes

by missmollyetc



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Europe, Gerard's drunk, and Bob needs a new duffel bag.  Frank just wants a damn break already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends in Quotes

**Author's Note:**

> All right, this is what happened. First? I graduated from graduate school, then I slept for two weeks, then I got disastrously sick, _then_ I went to England with my mother, lost my internet, got strep throat, and the ceiling broke open above us in our hotel room. Then we slept in a ten bed dorm. So I want to apologize for any and all mistakes present in this story.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [mcr](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/tag/mcr)  
---|---  
  
_ **BANDOM FIC: mcr4u exchange: Friends in Quotes (MCR 1/1)** _

Author: [](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/profile)[**missmollyetc**](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/)  
Recipient: [](http://wasoncedelight.livejournal.com/profile)[**wasoncedelight**](http://wasoncedelight.livejournal.com/)  
Title: Friends in Quotes   
Pairing: Bob/Frank  
Rating: G

Author's Notes: All right, this is what happened. First? I graduated from graduate school, then I slept for two weeks, then I got disastrously sick, _then_ I went to England with my mother, lost my internet, got strep throat, and the ceiling broke open above us in our hotel room. Then we slept in a ten bed dorm. So I want to apologize for any and all mistakes present in this story.

 

The prompt: "Bob/Frank, sharing the last cigarette in the pack."

 

 

Frank found him out behind the venue, kicking trash at the broken dumpster smashed against the alley wall. He paused on the threshold of the club's back door, eyeing the tense line of Bob's back, and the way his shoulders kept trying to hunch up to his earlobes before Bob ruthlessly sent them back. His thick black parka made rustling sounds when he moved.

Bob was good at being prepared, had all his shit stowed and packed in his own way, like a lot of techs Frank knew. You got particular with _things_ on tour, where and what you could call your own. Frank would have beat Gee's head in if it'd happened to him.  
They must've driven thirty miles or more, most of it with Bob at the wheel, the only sober man in the van for twenty-five of those. Frank had seen him, sort of, watched the back of his head nod in time with the CD player until the rocking van had put him back to sleep again. Bob at the wheel and all's well or something like that—the stupid things Frank usually thought just coming off a bender.

Frank stepped down into the alley, letting the back door slam behind him. Bob whirled around, hands half-fisted in front of his chest, and Frank raised his arms to the sky.

"Don't shoot, asshole," he said. "I'm just out here for a smoke."

Bob's mouth twisted. He grunted, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He sniffed, licking his lips, and looked away towards the mouth of the alley. He had hollows under his eyes, brownish-yellow like old bruises, and a zit poking out of the bristles on his chin. His bottom lip was strangely naked, soft above his growing beard.

The street lamp riveted to the wall above Frank's head lit everything either acid yellow, or shit brown. Frank couldn't really make up his mind which was worse, but fuck it. They were thirty minutes away from showtime. He wasn't the dumbfuck who vomited in a dude's duffel bag, and he shouldn't have been the dumbfuck sent out to bring Bob back inside anyway. Fucking Gerard, and his damn stash. He always bought his shit off whoever was selling, and it always bit him in the ass.

Frank walked closer, already feeling the January night air bite his skin through the holes in his jeans and t-shirt. He shivered, and pulled on his short sleeves, wincing when he caught a whiff of himself. Fuck, but he could use a Laundromat, but God help the fuckin' French if they'd have a single one in any of the damn cities they'd hit. Not _once_ had he even seen a dry cleaners. Not that he knew the French word for 'dry cleaners,' but he was grimy, oily, and now he was cold on top of it. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the battered, crushed packet of cigarettes he'd been hoarding since they'd landed at Charles de Gaulle. French smokes weren't the same, and everything was too expensive over here.

"You got a light?" he asked, without looking up.

He unfolded his pack, poked his fingers in the hole at the top, and fished out the last, battered half of his cigarette. He'd been saving the stub for after their set, but if Gee couldn't get his head out of the toilet, and Bob was angry enough to maybe bail… Frank shook his head and crushed his empty pack in his fist. He stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and shook his head. Fuck it, fucking…fuck it. Tour shit was tour shit. They'd all pull through.

"Yeah, I…give me a second," Bob muttered.

Frank raised his head. Bob was fishing in his pockets, pulling out spare plastic ties, a Leatherman tool he'd picked up somewhere, and a bunch of napkins, but no lighter.

"What kind of asshole goes out for a smoke without a lighter?" Bob asked.

Fran grinned, feeling his muscles stretch and maybe burn a little. It felt good to smile. He tucked his hands under his armpits, disgusting though they were, and bounced in place.

"Fuck you," he said. "And what's with the napkins?"

Bob folded the stack of paper napkins in half and stuffed them into his back pocket.

"There isn't any fucking paper towels around here, that's why," he said, "I'm not walking around in this weather with wet hands. I'd fucking freeze my fingers off, or some shit."

"You could turn the dials with your nose," Frank said. "It could be like your thing, your shtick. You might even make a living out of it."

"I've got a fucking living," Bob said, and even in the bad light, Frank could see the way Bob's face flattened at the reminder.

Frank winced. Fuck, way to remind the guy he could be getting paid for his awesomeness instead of following around a drunk and—Frank clamped down on his tiny cigarette, biting his lip in the process. Glass houses were probably safer than following that thought. He'd snored off his vodka and Vicoden face down in Gee's lap the morning after playing Paris, and none of them, Mikey, Matt, Ray or Brian, were in any stone-throwing position.

Bob reached into his pockets again, and came up with a lighter, neon pink and green. It looked like one of Mikey's. He handed it over, but Frank stepped forward, angling the end of his cigarette towards Bob's hand.

"Little motherfucker," Bob said, but he pressed the tab anyway.

Frank chewed the end of his smoke, rolling the paper and swallowing down the taste of tobacco. He could fucking well _see_ Bob giving him the out, tech versus band and some shit like that. Frank breathed out sharply through his nose. His stomach curled in on itself, just a little, because Bob was doing that thing techs did when they got screwed but needed to keep their job anyway and he…Frank wanted to let him. Fuck, if they all just pretended or something…but Bob didn't deserve that. Bob wasn't just their tech, wasn't just anything.

Frank ducked his head, catching the flame on his cigarette and puffing until the fire caught and held. He blew smoke out of the other side of his mouth.

Bob stuck the lighter back into his hoodie. He rubbed the flat of his other hand down the side of his face and across his mouth.

"I'm just so fucking smart, I can do two things at once, you know?" Frank said, rocking back on his heels for a second. "Smoke _and_ make peace, it's kind of amazing. I should have a pipe."

"Yeah?" Bob asked, leaning a little away.

Frank took the stub out of his mouth, and offered it. Bob pinched it out of his fingers. He took a drag, and then handed it back. Frank's fingers closed a little too closely to the burning end. He jumped, flung his hand out and the stub went flying. The tiny glowing butt arched out over the alley and sputtered out. Bob snorted, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.

"_Fuck_," Frank said, squinting. "Did you see where it went?"

"You really want to look for it?" Bob asked. "I think I saw two cats eating a dog back here while we were unloading."

Frank grimaced. "Eww."

"You're telling me."

Bob raised his eyebrows, which made his eyes look bigger than they normally did, which wasn't fucking fair. Frank was trying to apologize here—he was—not get fucking distracted.

"Look, dude…"

Bob stepped back. Frank followed him. From the end of the alley, he could hear people walking by; a crowd was starting to form outside the club. He swayed a little closer, just to make sure Bob could…hear him. When he started talking. Frank was polite like that.

The crowd outside was getting pretty loud. It sounded like a bunch of people, most of them probably here for the local band his band was opening for, but still. People had come to see them play, and maybe if they had Bob, they could get Gee to fall in too.

"Gee's a dumbfuck," Frank finally said. "And he didn't mean it. Please come make us sound awesome?"

He reached out and grabbed Bob's wrist. Bob snorted.

"You scared I'll leave your ass, Iero?" he asked.

"Maybe."

Bob shook his head, ducking his chin down to his collarbones. "This band, man," he said.

"Yeah," Frank said, grinning. "This band."

"You're cleaning my duffel," Bob said.

"Done."

"And doing my laundry."

"Great idea," Frank said.

He started walking backwards towards the club, tugging Bob along with him by the hand.

"And I get a kiss."

Frank stopped walking.

"Sorry?" he tried.

His hand loosened on Bob's wrist, and Bob twisted their fingers together. Their calluses rubbed against each other, and Frank shivered.

"A kiss," Bob repeated. "To make it better."

Frank felt a grin inch up his face. A laugh bubbled in his chest. Bob was smiling—blushing, but he was smiling—and Frank glanced left, then right. Nobody around.

"Well, in the interests of peace," he said.

Bob leaned down, and pressed his lips against Frank's, not moving until Frank had raised his hand to tilt Bob's mouth at a better angle. He pushed into the kiss, catching Bob's bottom lip between his teeth, full and sweet, and tugging on it as they pulled apart.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," Bob said, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other.

"Well, okay then," Frank said, licking his lips.

He liked the way Bob's eyes followed the path of his tongue. He turned around, and opened the back door to the club with his free hand. Warm, slightly stale air burst out from the doorway, throwing the canned music out after it into the alley. Frank's fingers shifted in Bob's hand as he led their way back inside, and gripped tightly.


End file.
